


Ohrwurm, Pt 1 - Listen to the Warm

by LyricaXXX (LyricaB)



Series: Ohrwurm [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Community: lewis_challenge, Earworm, International Fanworks Day 2015, Lewis Roulette, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/pseuds/LyricaXXX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James jerked his head in acknowledgment. “So...bad night? Still thinking about the case?” </p><p>“Sort of,” Robbie said, suddenly grumpy again. It wasn’t James’s fault, exactly. Though it was James who’d mentioned the song in the first place. Robbie would have never thought of it on his own. “It’s that bleedin’ song!” </p><p>“What song?” </p><p>“Johnny Cash and that prison song! I went home and looked it up on-line. And now I can’t get the tune out of me head. Woke me up in the middle of the night. And pieces of it just keep playing and playing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ohrwurm, Pt 1 - Listen to the Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Much gratitude to xfdryad and wendymr for beta reading, proofing, and Brit picking. Thank you, thank you, thank you!  
>  
> 
> Written for Lewis Roulette 2015 at Lewis_Challenge  
>  
> 
> I tried my luck with Black 19 (for a non-love song) and received _Folsom Prison Blues,_ Johnny Cash’s iconic hit, a song I absolutely hate and would have been happy to never hear again. I like Johnny Cash and some of his music, but _Folsom Prison Blues_ is a perfect earworm of a song that will play in my head for days. My love song, for Red 19, was almost as bad, _That's Amore_ , by Dean Martin. 
> 
> Like Robbie, I spent most of the first day after receiving my prompts wanting to bang my head on my desk. And thinking, ‘What the hell do I do with two such horrendous songs?! I don’t want to even listen to them. And if I do, how will I get rid of them once I’ve finished writing my stories? If I can even write something with these horrible songs included.’ (thud, thud, thud)
> 
> But then an idea occurred (because my muse is a contrary bitch who delights in teaching me lessons the hard way), and I started writing. And I’ve had the most fun writing this, even though I’ve had to take Lizzie’s advice and find a substitute, less objectionable earworm every night before going to bed. 
> 
> If you're like Robbie (and me), I suggest you have a good earworm substitute lined up before you read.

* * *

> It happens  
>  just because we need  
>  to want and to be  
>  wanted, too,  
>  when love is here or gone  
>  to lie down in the darkness  
>  and listen to the warm.  
>          _~The Need (Thirty Six)_ , Rod McKuen

 

James followed him.

Robbie had known he would. 

Out into the cold, into the street. Staying at a discreet distance until Robbie glanced back over his shoulder at him and then, taking that for permission, coming closer to wordlessly offer Robbie his anorak. 

Robbie grunted his thanks. Both because it was cold out—though he hadn’t felt it until he saw James clutching the coat—and because it had been in the boot of Robbie’s car—which meant James had made the effort to retrieve it when Robbie set out on his walkabout. 

And apparently, James took the grunt and the acceptance of the proffered coat as permission to stay, because he trailed along behind. Around corners, across a park, back onto pavement. Long shadow stretching forward to touch Robbie’s footsteps, then sliding back. Reflection occasionally visible in shop windows. Hands thrust deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched. Sometimes moving closer as they encountered groups of shoppers or students, then dropping back when the streets were less populated. Allowing Robbie the distance, the seclusion, to walk and brood. 

Though, Robbie reflected, he really shouldn’t be troubled. He should throw off the case as he’d learned to do decades ago, to walk away once his part was done. 

After all, they’d caught the murderer. The evidence had been thin and circumstantial, not enough to hold the man, much less convict, so they’d needed a confession. And they’d got their confession. The two of them, him and James, working together, not so much good copper/bad copper as clever copper/wily copper, easily trapping the suspect in a lie. And that was all it had taken. One lie exposed, and the man had folded, offering up his confession in a horrifyingly casual, dispassionate monotone. 

And that was what was disconcerting. Still. After all his years as a copper. The lack of concern over taking a life. That was what had him rambling through the Oxford streets on a grey, cold afternoon. Gnawing mentally at something that he would never understand, no matter how far he walked. 

Robbie glanced back, needlessly, to see that James was still there, four or five long strides back. They were walking along a path beside the Cherwell now, and Robbie was unsure when he’d doubled back to get them there, but he bet James could tell him. 

He veered off the walkway and sat, joints creaking, on the cold ground and rested his arms on his knees. Linked one hand to wrist and stared at the slow-moving river. At where lances of late afternoon sunlight were sneaking through the clouds, painting sun-coloured dapples on the grey water. 

He didn’t even have to glance back to know James was hovering, unsure whether to come to him or to give him his space. Robbie jerked his head in invitation, and in an instant, James was there beside him. Folding his long, lanky legs gracefully to take up a place on the ground beside him. 

James hadn’t smoked the whole time they were walking, and now he dug in his coat pocket and pulled out cigarettes and a lighter. Lit up and tilted his head back to blow out a thin cone of smoke. 

After another puff, he leaned back, bracing on his hands and tilting his face to the sky as if he was tanning on a sandy beach in the summer instead of sitting on crunchy dead grass on a cold February day. 

And maybe because he was sure James already knew, or maybe because James just sat there beside him and let him be, Robbie finally felt the need to explain why they were sitting in the cold instead of relaxing in the warmth of the nick. Or having a celebratory pint. 

He sighed, his breath making a frosty cone almost as thick as James’s cigarette smoke. “All the years I’ve worked this job... All that I’ve seen, the best and the worst of people,” he said finally. “And I think there’s nothing left to shock me. But this one... I can’t wrap me head around it.” 

James nodded and sat forward, leaning his arms on his knees and hunching his long spine into a comma. “ _‘I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die’_ ,” he intoned solemnly. 

The timbre of his voice told Robbie that James was quoting something. And it did sound vaguely familiar, but Robbie couldn’t place it. “Eh?”

“It’s from an old song by an American country music singer named Johnny Cash.” 

“I know him,” Robbie said, willing to be taken out of the darkness of his brooding by another of James’s rambles into musical history. Amazed, as always, by the way James’s mind worked, linking seemingly unrelated subjects to make a point. 

“He wrote the song when he was in Germany serving in the US Army. It’s about a man who’s in prison for murder, listening to a train passing by, and wishing for freedom. Cash said when he was writing the song, he tried to think of the worst possible reason a person could have for killing someone. And that was what he came up with...‘just to watch him die’.” 

Robbie sighed. “Aye. He had the right of that, didn’t he? It’s hard enough when we deal with people who’ve killed for drugs or greed. Or what they call love. At least, I can usually see the twisted logic. But this one...” He shook his head. 

James blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the ground between his feet. 

The wind caught it and whirled it past Robbie’s nose before scattering it. And Robbie breathed in the scent, realizing that while he’d never particularly liked smoking, had never had the urge to smoke himself, the scent had somehow become linked to the concept of warmth and safety in his mind. To comfort and companionship. Because it almost always meant James was nearby. 

Every so often, he nagged at James to quit for the sake of his health. And Robbie kept hoping that James would quit, but...how would James smell if he no longer smoked? 

James ground his cigarette out on the ground and started to flick the butt away. Seeing Robbie eyeing him, frown poised, James smiled and pulled a tissue out of his pocket. Tucked the butt into it and pocketed it. 

Robbie nodded, satisfied, and rubbed his hands together. It was getting bloody cold as the sun sank towards the horizon. The clouds had closed ranks again, and all the little dapples of orange and pale gold were gone from the river. The water was just grey green now, rippling with the breeze. 

He felt like that. Grey green without any dancing colour. But better. Cold and tired, not any closer to understanding, but better. He still couldn’t wrap his head around killing someone just because ‘he was there and I was there and I wanted to’. But Robbie felt better, knowing that James understood how he felt. 

He clapped his hand on James’s shoulder and used him for leverage to stand up. “Come on, Inspector. Let’s get back and get the paperwork wrapped up.” 

Might as well get it all done. When he and Laura were together, he would have felt the need to head home and get dinner on the table, but there was only his empty flat and leftover chicken pie beckoning now. And that confession had put him right off eating anyway. 

James held out his hand to be pulled up. “How about we call it a day? I could use a few hours away from police work. I’ll ask Lizzie to get started on the report.” 

Robbie noted the hesitation in James’s voice. He knew James still had enough of the sergeant in him to feel odd about handing off all the grunt work to Lizzie. Not to mention that James still struggled sometimes with allowing himself to delegate. Not like he had in the beginning, but still a bit. But James was right to hesitate with this one. Lizzie couldn’t do all of it, because he’d been the one with James for most of the interviews on this one while she stayed on their other case. “I’ll do it up, if you want,” he offered. 

James shrugged as he started off down the path. 

“Want me to drop you off at yours?” Robbie asked, following. He knew Lizzie had picked James up this morning on her way in. 

“Buy you a pint on the way?” 

“Yeah,” Robbie agreed, tugging the collar of his anorak up under his chin. “Somewhere warm.” 

James slowed and fell into step with him. And stayed beside him as they walked back to the station. 

*****

As Robbie turned down the hall towards James’s office the next morning, a young constable took one look at him and wheeled smartly into a nearby office. The quick turn and the young man’s animal-caught-in-the-headlights expression reminded him of the way clerks and constables, even some superior officers, would make a dash for safety when Morse ventured out while he was in the middle of a bad case. 

_‘But those people keep a movin’,_ ’ shoved itself into his head in Johnny Cash’s deep baritone. 

“Bleedin’ hell,” he growled, sending a couple of clerks scurrying ahead of him.

He pushed through the door of James’s office and was surprised to find that James was already in, already hard at work, hunched over a file so that only the top of his blond head showed. 

“Is me reputation that bad?” Robbie asked. “A couple of young ones just went scurrying out of me path like I was Innocent on a tear.” 

It was early morning, very early, and from the look of the nearly empty coffee cup and half-eaten roll pushed to one side of James’s desk, Robbie would have had to start a lot earlier to get in ahead of him. 

_‘They’re prob’ly drinkin’ coffee and smokin’ big cigars,_ ’ insinuated itself into Robbie’s thoughts, and he shoved back at it. Not that it was doing any good. He’d been trying to shove the song out of his thoughts since the middle of the night when he’d woken to find that, in the darkness, the spirit of Johnny Cash had taken up residence in his brain. 

James placed a fingertip on the middle of a page and looked up. His eyebrows went up, and he blinked. Blinked again. “Well, Robert...” he said, obviously searching for words. “You’re reputed to be a kindly old gent who rarely barks and never bites. But you do look a bit like a thundercloud this morning.” 

Robbie scowled and turned away. Ordinarily, a comment like that would have led to a mood-brightening skirmish of words. But this morning, James’s jest didn’t help Robbie’s foul mood. “If you’d had the night I had...” Robbie grumbled. 

Robbie took a deep breath as he dropped his coat onto the hook behind the door and made a serious effort to soften the growl that kept wanting to worm its way into his voice. “You’re in early.” 

James nodded, finger still holding a place in the file spread before him. “I wanted to finish up the paperwork on the murder case.” 

Robbie hesitated, considering between desk and the spare chair. The other desk in the room was, by rights, Lizzie’s, but not long after he’d started working with them regularly, she’d started doing a lot of her work in the common area, leaving the desk to him. He wasn’t sure if she preferred working out there, or she was just being kind because she knew he missed having a desk, or she’d sussed that it helped with the way he and James processed, bouncing ideas off each other, for them to work close. He suspected it was a bit of all, and he tried to be as considerate of her. 

Since he didn’t know what they’d be working on next, or even if there was anything for him to do now that James had completed the paperwork on the murder case, he chose the nearby chair and dropped into it. “Thought we said I’d handle that for you. Wasn’t any rush, was there?” 

“No.” James scratched his signature across a page and shuffled all the papers into a neat stack before clipping them into the folder. “It’s just...” 

He didn’t quite meet Robbie’s gaze as he closed the file with a sharp snap. “The case was bothering you, so I thought...” 

“You thought it might help if I didn’t have to handle the paperwork?” Robbie offered, softened enough by James’s gesture for the tension between his eyebrows to ease. 

James stood and deposited the file on Lizzie’s desk. Pink seeped up the back of his neck from underneath his collar. 

And Robbie was reminded of another early morning, back when he’d been the guv’nor and James the sergeant. James had stayed all night, on his own initiative, piecing together photos from an old, unsolved case of Robbie’s. And he’d turned away just that same way when Robbie had asked him why, as if he was embarrassed to be caught doing something nice, something kind. 

Robbie could still hear James’s murmured explanation for what he’d done...‘Well, you thought something wasn’t right’. Could still see, like a snapshot in his memory, the way James had looked. So achingly young and earnest. Skinny and rumpled and vulnerable. Shirt tail hanging out. Hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it over and over as he worked at sorting and matching photos. 

Robbie had no trouble banishing the growl from his voice now. “Thank you, James.” 

James jerked his head in acknowledgment, and the pink up the back of his neck darkened. “So...bad night? Still thinking about the case?” 

“Sort of,” Robbie said, suddenly grumpy again. It wasn’t James’s fault, exactly. Though it was James who’d mentioned the song in the first place. Robbie would have never thought of it on his own. “It’s that bleedin’ song!” 

“What song?” 

“Johnny Cash and that prison song! I went home and looked it up on-line.” 

He paused to glare as James bit his lip and tried not to grin. 

After all these years, cheeky pup thought he still didn’t know how to do anything more complicated than turn a computer on. “I do know how to look things up!” Robbie growled. “Only this is one time I wish I’d pushed the wrong button. ‘Cause now I can’t get that bleedin’ tune out of me head. Woke me up in the middle of the night. And pieces of it just keep playing and playing.” 

James grin widened. “You’ve got an earworm?”

“A what?” Robbie growled, rubbing his forehead as if he could scrub out the thumping tune that sounded like a train rolling down the tracks. James seemed entirely too amused about something that had kept Robbie up half the night and was now making him wish he’d chosen the desk chair, just so he could bang his head on the desk. 

“An earworm. A piece of a song that’s stuck in your head. It’s also called ‘stuck song syndrome’.” 

Robbie rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers. Even the crinkling, squishy sound his eyes made was preferable to the song. “Might have known you’d have some fancy name for it,” he grumbled. 

“Have you tried listening to something else?” James asked. His tone was solicitous, but Robbie suspected that he was chuckling behind that innocent, helpful expression. 

“Aye. Listened to Wagner at top volume all the way in. The minute I turned it off, the bleeding thing came right back.” 

_‘And that’s what tortures me,_ ’ Johnny supplied, and this time Robbie’s brain treated him to the full guitar riff that went with the words. 

“You never get songs stuck in your head?” Robbie asked. 

James shrugged. “I suppose I do. Sometimes. Sometimes a melody will play over and over. But usually when I write it down, it goes away. You’ve never had an earworm before?” James sounded incredulous. 

“Might’ve woke up a couple of times hearing something I’d heard the day before. But I’ve never got anything stuck before. This bloody thing is even talkin’ back to me. How do I get rid of it?” 

“I don’t know...” James paused to think. “If it was me, I’d try reading poetry. Or a textbook. A religious text. Something that requires concentration. Or maybe listen to music. But I’ve never had anything bother me the way this seems to be bothering you.” 

Robbie put his elbow on the arm of the chair, propped his head in his hand, and closed his eyes, concentrating solely on the sound of James’s voice. It seemed to help. 

James stepped near him. “Let’s see if we can find you a cure.” 

Robbie felt like James reached out and touched him, but when he opened his eyes, James was already moving away, and the ghostly brush of warmth on his shoulder might have been his imagination. 

James slid into his chair, pulled his keyboard to him, and typed rapidly. He peered at his monitor. “An earworm, also called a ‘brainworm’, or ‘musical imagery repetition’, or ‘stuck song syndrome’, is a catchy piece of music that continually repeats in the mind after it’s no longer playing.” 

Robbie sighed, but not with frustration. 

James’s voice was soft, kind of singsongy. Soothing. It made Robbie feel like he had in the pub the evening before. They’d sat on a bench beside the hearth, and the heat from the crackling fire had seeped in from his left, and the warmth of James, sitting close on his right, had seeped slowly in from that side until he was warmed through to his middle. 

“The word ‘earworm’ is from the German ‘ohrwurm’, literally meaning ‘ear’ and ‘worm’. This is interesting... In ancient times, dried and ground insects were used to treat ear diseases, and—” 

That interrupted Robbie’s memory of fire and warmth and ale. “We’re not putting dried insect dust in me ears!” 

James laughed. “Never say never,” he intoned, then went back to his reading. “I only mentioned it because that remedy is probably the origin of the term ‘earworm’. From an error in the Latin—” 

“I don’t care where the word came from, James,” Robbie said plaintively, rubbing his eyes again. “How do I get rid of it?”

 _‘If they freed me from this prison,_ ’ Johnny taunted him. 

James clicked the mouse. Scrolled. “The phenomenon is common and should not be confused with a rare medical condition caused by damage to the temporal lobe—” he paused and looked up at Robbie. “You haven’t damaged your temporal lobe recently, have you?” 

Robbie just looked at him through his fingers. 

James smothered his grin and went back to his screen. “Right. No brain damage. That we know of.” 

He scrolled again, his bluegreen gaze moving rapidly back and forth across the screen. Some phrases bled through his concentration, and he mumbled aloud as he read. “Women and men experience equally... Earworms tend to last longer for women... Songs with lyrics account for 73.7% of earworms... How the hell did they figure that out, 73.7%?”

 _‘I bet I’d move it on a little further down the line’_ , Robbie’s brain urged. 

He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Last night, almost all of the song had just kept repeating in his head, like a record set to play over and over. But since breakfast, which he’d had to force down because he kept imagining it tasted like the oily smoke from an old train, it was like the thing was keeping up a running commentary on what was going on around him. 

James made a surprised sound, and Robbie looked up, hoping he’d found a list of cures, but instead, James said, “Oh, you’re going to love this!” He read from his screen, “Composer Richard Wagner was the first to truly popularise the power of the miniature musical motif, using more than 100 of them during his vast operatic Ring Cycle to identify characters, plots and objects. These tiny themes are known as ‘leitmotifs’ and are the precursors of today’s ad jingles.’” James grinned at Robbie like he’d found an amazing piece of information. “So Wagner is the grandfather of the jingle earworm.”

Robbie grunted. Great. Just his luck. Didn’t sound like he’d be trying any more Wagner as a cure. 

James shrugged, clearly disappointed that Robbie didn’t see the humour, and went back to his reading. “Hmmm...interesting. Musicians and people with obsessive-compulsive disorder are more likely...” His voice died away and he looked up, eyes twinkling. “You wouldn’t consider yourself obsessive...” Seeing Robbie’s glower, his voice died away again. “No, of course not.” 

He went back to the monitor. “Short-term memory... Usually lasts 15 to 30 seconds. Simple tunes are more likely to get stuck than complex pieces... Some— Here we are!” 

Robbie, who’d been listening to the song from the beginning and thinking at the same time that his earworm was certainly longer than 15 to 30 seconds, perked up. He stood and went around the desk and leaned on the back of James’s chair so he could peer over James’s shoulder at the screen. 

James smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and coffee and freshly-starched shirt, and his back was warm against Robbie’s forearm. 

James said triumphantly, “We need to engage your working memory in moderately difficult tasks such as anagrams, Sudoku, or reading.”

“Pseudo what?” Robbie asked. 

“Sudoku. It’s a Japanese number puzzle.” 

“Oh, those things. I don’t care for ‘em. All you have to do is list the numbers and the answer’s obvious.” 

James raised his eyebrows. “Have you tried the master level ones?” 

Robbie shrugged, not sure what James was getting at. “It’s still just listing numbers. It’s boring.” 

“You don’t care for Sudoku because they’re too easy to solve and, therefore, boring?” James shook his head in disbelief and turned back to the monitor. 

“It says here that a repeating rhythm may lead to endless repetition unless a climax can be achieved.” James tilted his face up to Robbie, leaned heavily back into his arm, and smiled. Sweetly, intimately. Facetiously. 

Robbie flushed and straightened up, removing his arm from its proximity to James’s back. Aware, suddenly, of the thing he tried never to think about. How beautiful James’s smile was when he was relaxed and enjoying himself. Of how much it warmed him to be on the receiving end of that smile. Of how much it warmed him to be around James, period. _‘Always be a good boy’_ , Johnny Cash reminded him. 

“A _musical_ climax,” James said as if he knew why Robbie’s face had suddenly turned red. “Which part of the song are you stuck on? Maybe if you listen to it all the way through, let it reach its climax, so to speak, that will get it out of your head.” 

“All of it’s stuck, in bits and pieces. And I already tried listening to it all the way through. A couple of times. All that did was make me more sure of some of the words I couldn’t remember.” 

“Well, you can try reading. Or...” James pointed to a stack of files on the corner of his desk. “...I have case files that need to be finished up, and Innocent’s after me for a productivity report.” 

“Wonderful,” Robbie grumbled. “A productivity report. I gave up the excitement of building boats in me back garden for crunching numbers.” 

But he held his hand out for James’s paperwork. He’d try anything to get the song out of his head. 

_‘And I'd let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away’_ , Johnny advised. 

When Lizzie breezed in later, with three coffees in a cardboard carrier, Robbie was at their desk, working on Innocent’s report. 

James stopped what he was doing to answer her breezy greeting, but Robbie just lifted a hand and kept his mind on the numbers he was double-checking between the computer and James’s files. There’d been nothing but blessed addition and multiplication in his mind for almost an hour, and he didn’t want to jinx it. 

“And I thought I was getting here early!” Lizze said as she shuffled papers into a stack on the corner of the desk so she could put the carrier down. She paused to take off her coat before handing James a cup of coffee and putting one within Robbie’s reach. 

“Thank you,” James said, and Robbie added a quick, “Ta, lass.” 

She glanced at the papers Robbie had fanned around the keyboard and smiled at James. “The productivity report? Sir, what kind of blackmail material do you have on Inspector Lewis to get him to do that?” 

Robbie glanced up long enough to see James smile. 

“Inspector Lewis has an earworm,” James explained. “He’s concentrating on numbers in order to banish it.” 

Lizzie made a sound that was both sympathetic and disgusted. “I get those. Usually it’s a show tune or a boy band...” She pretend-shuddered. 

“American country mu—” James began

Robbie cut him off. “Don’t even say it. Not if you want me to keep working on this.” Not that he was going to stop. Innocent’s reports weren’t high on his list of favourite things to do, but maths was preferable to Johnny Cash. 

James put his fingers over his mouth to show he wasn’t going to say anything else. 

“I usually listen to an audio book to get rid of mine,” Lizzie said. “Or if it’s really persistent, I replace it with an earworm song that I don’t mind, like that one by The Spice Girls or that Mambo one, or Ricky Martin. La Vi—”

This time it was James who threw up his hand. “Sergeant, please!” 

Robbie laughed, daring to take his attention off the numbers. So much for James claiming he didn’t get earworms. 

Lizzie winked at Robbie before she took a seat in the empty chair and turned to James. “So, Sir, what are we working on today?” 

“Back to the theft ring case. Why don’t you bring me up to speed on what you’ve done on it?” 

Robbie finished the report and printed it out while they talked. He exchanged chairs with Lizzie wordlessly and sat listening as James and Lizzie went over the evidence in the case they’d been investigating before the murder had sidetracked James. 

As long as James was talking, voice gliding along in a smooth, steady rhythm, there was no annoying earworm keeping up a running commentary in his head. 

When the song came back later, while they were eating an early pub dinner, he nudged James, “I’ll get another round in if you’ll tell me about that book you were reading last week. The one about heads.”

“Heads?” 

“The one about decapitation.” 

“Oh, that one.” James drained the last of his bitter and held out his empty glass. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” 

A little ripple of discomfort slithered through Robbie’s gut. How had James deciphered that Robbie didn’t care a whit for the history of severed or shrunken heads? That all he really wanted was to hear James’s lovely, warm voice? 

And why did he even imagine James would mind? He opened his mouth to tell James the truth, but...it was just...embarrassing, wasn’t it? To be wanting to hear a mate’s voice like that. 

But one glance at James, and Robbie relaxed. James was hiding his ‘taking the piss out of Robbie’ grin behind his wrist as he pretended to wipe foam off his lip. 

“Thought I might pick up some pointers, me. You know, in case a suspect, or a Chief Super, or a even a certain Inspector starts to annoy me.” 

James gave up his pretence and smiled. One of his rare sunburst smiles that lit up Robbie’s day. “Okay,” he said easily. “Another pint, and I’ll tell you all about beheadings and decapitations.” 

*****

“Is your earworm back?” James asked. 

Robbie, who’d been sitting in his chair, pretending to read the newspaper for the last half hour while he waited for either Lizzie or James to give him a lift home, scowled. 

That evening at the pub, a couple of days back, James had talked for nigh on to two hours with only breaks for sips of bitter. Telling Robbie about the books he’d been reading, and the new poet he admired, and the latest exhibit at Pitt Rivers. 

And the earworm song had left him alone for almost three days. But it had come back last night, in the middle of the night. Waking him from a dream he couldn’t remember but that he suspected he’d wanted to finish. 

“How could you tell?” he muttered. 

“You look like a thundercloud again.” 

“Sir!” Lizzie admonished James with gentle laughter, then she turned to Robbie and said kindly, “You get this line, right between your eyes, like you’re trying to scrunch your ears shut.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Robbie told her. “You’re much more diplomatic than your inspector.” 

“Maybe she had a better diplomacy teacher than I did,” James retorted. 

Lizzie laughed at both of them and closed the file she’d been working on. “I’m going to head out, Sir, if that’s okay.” 

When James waved his hand at her, she stood and began gathering her things. “Could I drop you somewhere?” she asked Robbie. 

James closed the file he’d been sifting through. “No. He’s coming with me.” 

Robbie stood and got their coats from behind the door. “I am?” he asked, raising his eyebrows as he threw James’s coat to him, then held Lizzie’s coat so she could slip into it. 

She smiled a thank you to him and left. 

“I have band rehearsal tonight.” James flipped his coat around and slipped it on. 

In all the years Robbie had known James, he’d never been to hear him rehearse with his band. To the occasional concert or to a venue where some or all of the musicians were playing a set. But never to practice. James had invited him a couple of times, but something had always come up. 

James held the door for Robbie to precede him and turned off the lights as they exited. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” he said as they headed out. “I just thought the music might help your earworm.” 

Robbie nodded. “I’ll try anything.” He made it sound like it was desperation to be rid of Johnny Cash, but he was really chuffed to be asked to rehearsal. “Want to grab a bite and a pint before? I’m buying.” 

“Sure,” James agreed. “I need to run to my place and get my guitar, though. Want me to pick you up at yours in about 30?” 

Robbie didn’t even turn his radio on for the drive home. The rhythmic beat that sounded like a train rolling down the tracks played along in his mind, but he didn’t pay it much attention. He was thinking about watching James practice with his band. 

*****

“Robbie Lewis, Benji Eaton.” James introduced the young man who walked up as James was taking his guitar out of the case. 

Benji was a good head and a half shorter than James, dark-eyed and dark-haired, but otherwise, he was a practically a carbon copy of James, right down to the oblong face and the straight-lipped but friendly smile. He was lean and gangly and slope-shouldered, and he had a shoebox cradled under one arm and a handful of sheet music in the other hand. 

“Robbie works with me,” James said back over his shoulder. 

“I know who he is.” Benji tucked the sheet music into his armpit and extended his hand, though not very far because he kept his elbow glued to his ribs to keep the papers from falling. “James talks about you all the time. Nice to finally meet you.” 

Robbie had to lean over the pew to shake it. “All bad, I suppose,” he joked, but there was something tiny and flickering, like a lone candle seen from a distance, that fluttered behind his navel at the idea that James had talked about him to his friends. 

Benji laughed. “Oh, absolutely. Terrible things. I’m surprised he can stand to be in the same room with you.” 

James closed the lid of his guitar case noisily and snapped it shut. His face was pink, and he didn’t quite meet Robbie’s gaze. 

“Hey! We need our music!” one of the band members called from behind the piano. He sounded gruff, but he smiled at Robbie as he said, “And, James, are we gonna rehearse or gab?” 

“Acoustics are better further back,” Benji told Robbie and headed for the space at the foot of the stairs where the band had set up around the piano. 

“But sit anywhere you want,” James said and sauntered off up the aisle. 

Robbie wandered around a bit, admiring the colourful stained glass windows, while the band was tuning their instruments and discussing what to play. He settled on a pew halfway back, near the centre of the room in the shadow of a huge column, where he could watch without being observed. 

The shoebox Benji had been carrying had microphones in it, and he speedily set them up on the music stands and, after making a couple of adjustments, gave the band a thumbs-up. His recording equipment, set up on a folding table off to the side, consisted of headphones, an electrical board of some kind and a laptop. As the foursome began playing, he donned the headphones and was soon as lost in whatever was happening on his computer screen as the band was in their music. 

And it was just lovely, the space, the music, watching James play. There was no other word for it. 

Through the years, James had handed Robbie one or both of the ear things for his music player many times, to share a song, a piece of a tune the band was working on. Even the set of songs they’d played at some venue. But hearing it that way was nothing like hearing it in the huge, hollow space of All Saints. 

It was mellow and soothing, even the brighter pieces, the music lifting up to the rafters and echoing softly off stone. With every note, Robbie relaxed further. Days worth of tension slid out of his shoulders and neck, out of his mind, leaving him peaceful and calm. Surrounded by sound that, like James’s voice, warmed him from the inside out. 

And it was lovely watching James, too. It wasn’t often Robbie could observe, unobserved. 

It wasn’t often he got to see James so unguarded, as tranquil and mellow as the music. There was a tension, a concentration to him, in his hands, that was contradictory, because it was also peaceful. He sat, arms and shoulders curved down over the guitar, long limbs relaxed, fingers moving sensuously, face still and so...Robbie searched for a word...serene. At ease. Here, with the guitar cradled in his arms, James was at home in his long, lanky body as Robbie rarely saw him. 

And he felt a pang of joy at this glimpse of James. And a pang of disappointment that James never looked quite that way, in his office or walking beside Robbie through the streets of Oxford. It seemed a shame that James only found that depth of comfort and ease in music. 

Robbie sighed when the band looked up from their instruments, and by some unspoken agreement, unhooked and unplugged and pushed back for a break. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, watching James. Watching his face and the way his fingers moved on the guitar strings. It seemed like only ten minutes, and at the same time, like he’d been there for hours. He was surprised to find how lost he’d been in James and the music. At how odd and cool the silence seemed. 

One of the band members went up the stairs to speak with the priest who’d been standing, head tilted in bliss, listening. A couple of them pulled out bottled water and then put their heads together over the stack of sheet music. Benji fiddled with his computer and one of the microphones, then disappeared towards into the shadows behind the stair. 

James came down to snag his coat and his cigarettes, saying, “You okay?” 

Robbie said, “Yeah,” and started to stand, to go out into the cold with James, but before he could move, Benji appeared at the end of the row where he was sitting, carrying two cups. 

James waved and went strolling off up the aisle alone. 

Benji turned sideways and edged down to where Robbie was sitting and held out one of the cups. “It’s rubbish coffee,” he said apologetically. “But it’s the best we can offer. Unless you want water or a can from the machine next door.” 

“This is fine,” Robbie said, taking the cup. “Ta.” He hadn’t realized, until the music stopped, that the air was so cool. Just on the edge of being uncomfortable. 

The cup was hot and a bit soft in his grip. He sipped carefully. The coffee was thick and tasted like it had been strained through a dirty dishcloth. The best that could be said for it was that it was hot. 

Benji laughed at the face he made. “I warned you.” 

“Nah, it’s fine, man. You’d be surprised what I can drink after four decades as a copper.” 

Benji smiled and settled himself, drawing one knee up onto the seat so he could turn and face Robbie. “You were James’s boss, right? The one who retired?” 

“Yeah, I did. But I’m with the force now as a contract employee. They call me in when they’re shorthanded. Or when they need the benefit of me invaluable experience.” He said the last two words with the sarcasm they were due, rolling his eyes a bit. 

Benji laughed. “Are you a musician, too?” 

“Oh, no. Don’t have a musical bone in me body. James brought me along because he thought hearing the music tonight would...” Robbie let his voice trail off. He suddenly felt silly. For Lizzie and James to know he had a song stuck in his head was one thing. But to confess it to a total stranger who didn’t know he wasn’t prone that kind of silliness... 

“Would...?” Benji prompted, leaning closer to peer at him. 

There was something about the young man that put him at his ease in spite of himself. “Well,” Robbie admitted reluctantly, a bit shame-faced. “I’ve got this...earworm. James talked about a song a week or so ago in connection to a case we were working, and now I can’t get it out of my head. I think he was feeling a bit guilty, so he brought me along tonight, hoping the music might help.” 

“Man, I hate those!” Benji said immediately, sympathy thick in his voice. “Mine are always jingles off the telly. I can’t even _look_ at a hotdog without hearing that ad.” 

Robbie grinned, pleasantly relieved to be understood. He wondered if that wasn’t why James had brought him, so he could meet Benji. 

Benji jerked his thumb towards the space where the band had been playing. “These guys have saved me more than once. That’s actually why I started recording them. That and I wanted to try out my recording skills. But once I started doing it, they liked having the recordings to listen to for feedback. You know, to improve their sound, so I come every so often and record a session.” 

Robbie nodded. “It’s lovely music.” 

“Yeah, you looked a little zoned out.” 

Robbie flushed. He’d thought he was far enough back in shadow that no one could see him. “The music sounds better in here than on James’s player.” 

“Yeah, it’s a great space. And the vicar really loves their sound, so he keeps inviting them back.” Benji tilted his head back and looked up into the depths of the ceiling. “Don’t tell any of them I said or they’ll give me the piss, but I haven’t found anything better than their music to get rid of an earworm.” 

“The best I’ve found is James’s voice.” Robbie heard the words come out. The moment he said them, the muscles in his throat clenched, trying to close down as if he could stop himself, but it was too late. He’d said something to a complete stranger that he’d barely even allowed himself to think. 

And it sounded... Well, did it sound creepy? Lecherous? His face flushed so hot he was sure the colour was visible across the room. “I mean...” he rushed to explain. “You know how James is. If you can get him talking on some subject, he’ll just go on and on and tell you more than you can ever remember.” 

Benji laughed. Easy and comfortable like what Robbie had said was as natural as rain. “Yeah, he’s kind of quiet, but when he does get talking, I’m always amazed at the things he knows. And he has a great voice. Really soothing. You should hear him sing.” 

Robbie nodded, tension flooding out of him. He sipped at the terrible coffee to hide his relief. 

“Hey, I’ve got an idea...” Benji stood up. “Don’t go away.” 

He put his cup down and hurried back to his equipment. He dug around in a duffel bag sitting under the table, then moved to a rucksack. Gave a grunt of satisfaction when he pulled something small and rectangular out of one of the pockets. He straightened out a cord and plugged it into his laptop. Tapped a few keys. Waited. Then detached it and brought it over. 

He slid back into the pew and handed Robbie a handful of wires and a white music player very much like the one James had. “Take this with you. I put the band’s music on it.” 

“No,” Robbie protested, turning the white rectangle over in his hand. It looked a lot like his phone, though the screen was smaller, and instead of a numberpad, it had a circular doodad with buttons surrounding it. “I couldn’t.” 

“Sure you can.” Benji smiled. “Keep it as long as you like. You can give it to James to bring back to me.” 

“But I might damage it. Erase all your files or something. James’ll tell you, I’m not exactly an expert with these things.” Robbie tried to hand the player back, but Benji waved it away. 

“No big deal. It’s my spare. I outgrew it months ago. And there’s nothing on there that’s not backed up. Just a few of my favourites and stuff I’ve recorded here.” 

Robbie nodded, fingers closing around the player. He liked the idea of having James’s band’s music to listen to. “Ta.”

Benji winked at him. “I have to do what I can to help a fellow sufferer.” 

Then he leaned close. “Here, I’ll show you how to use it. It’s not that different from using a mobile. This is the charging cord. The earbuds plug in here. And this turns it on...” 

He still had his head close to Robbie’s, showing him how to navigate around in the files, which he called ‘playlists’, when James came back in, and the rest of the band reassembled on the stage. 

“So what did you and Benji have your heads together over?” James asked on the way back to Robbie’s flat. 

“He’s loaned me his music player, with some of your band’s music on it. In case my earworm comes back.” 

James signalled a turn and gave him a quick glance as he slowed to check for traffic. Not that there was much traffic. It was late and the streets were quiet and shiny damp from a light rain. The streetlamps reflected off the pavement with a wavy, yellow glow. 

“So the rehearsal helped?”

“So far, so good,” Robbie answered. After a moment, he said, “The music was lovely, James. Thanks.” 

James smiled. A soft, genuine smile, a playing-music kind of smile. “You’re welcome. And you’re welcome to come with me any time.” 

At the next intersection, James glanced at him again, and his smile had become a smirk. 

“What?” 

James gave into an outright grin. “I’m just thinking. With an update of your wardrobe, you’d fit right in with the students, bopping around Oxford with earbud wires dangling from your ears.” 

Robbie couldn’t help but grin back. “Done it often enough with just one of yours dangling from me ear.” 

And James’s smile blinked back to genuine. 

“And I just bought this shirt!” 

And back to the smirk. 

*****

Robbie yawned. Time for bed. Past time, really, since he’d nodded off during the last bit he’d been watching on the telly. As he tried to talk himself into getting up and getting ready for bed, he clicked through the channels. It was something Laura had found annoying, the way he liked to surf through the channels last thing. “If you’re on your way to bed, what difference does it make what’s coming up?” she’d fuss. And she was right. But it didn’t stop him from doing it. 

He rubbed his head and clicked through, only paying half attention. That was the nice thing and the sad thing about being on his own again. He could do whatever he pleased without worrying about displeasing anyone, but that also meant there was no one around to please. To care. And—

He clicked, and, bloody hell!, there was an old film. A western with a train in it, and the clack of the pistons was so close to the beat of the music in _Folsom Prison Blues_ that the whole song leapt into his mind. Not like usual, when it sneaked up on him. When he’d be working or eating or just walking along and realize he was playing the lyrics in his head. This slammed into his brain, and he’d run through the opening intro and was halfway into the first verse before he could even try to shut it out. 

He’d been earworm free for days, since James’s band rehearsal. And now this, because he’d been flipping through channels when he didn’t need to. Laura would laugh her arse off if she knew and waggle that little finger at him and say ‘I told you so.’ 

Benji’s music player was still tucked away in the pocket of his anorak, and he got up and retrieved it. Thumbed it on. It took him a couple of tries to get to the files the way Benji had showed him. As he scrolled through them, he tried to remember how James’s band had been listed. He’d been paying such close attention to how to turn the thing on, and how to get to the playlists, and how to make the player start at the beginning and keep going, that he hadn’t paid attention to file names. 

And Benji had a lot of them on there, from types of music—alternative, boogie, which sounded interesting, jazz—to specific bands, some Robbie’d never heard of. 

He scrolled through the list. He was pretty sure it wasn’t called ‘James’s Band’, which is what he would have called it, but he scrolled to the ‘Js’ anyway. And there, between ‘Indie’ and ‘Jazz Favourites’, was a file called ‘James’. He set the player so it would play that list, and put it on pause. 

Then feeling pretty good about his memory and his ability with gadgets, and thinking of how James would smirk at him for thinking so, he and Johnny went off to the bath to get ready for bed. He only had to listen to the country guitar and the depressing lyrics for another few minutes, just while he had a shower and cleaned his teeth and backtracked to check that the door was locked. 

He slipped into bed, shivering at the chill of the sheets, and plugging the earbuds into his ears, said grimly, “Sod off, Johnny,” before punching the play button and settling down on the pillow. 

But what filtered into his ears made him sit straight back up. Because the first song listed under ‘James’ wasn’t James’s band. It was James singing. James’s lovely, earworm-banishing voice, singing solo, accompanied only by his guitar. 

Robbie clicked to the next track. James singing again. Robbie knew the song, a minor hit from a couple of years back. The next one was a pop song he’d heard a few times, with the band playing with James. A low-key love song, well-suited to James’s voice, which was low-key and soft itself. 

Robbie hadn’t realized they did anything other than their world music. He skipped to the next song, eager to see what was there. Another hit from a few years back. And then a couple of he didn’t know. Which wasn’t unusual. He wasn’t that familiar with the latest music. But they didn’t have the polished feel of the others. 

The songs sounded a bit rough. James’s voice was strong and sure in places, less so in others, like he was straining a bit. Like he was unsure where he was going with the tune. And at the beginning of one of them, he said in an irritated voice, “No, that’s not right. Let me try it another way.” 

Robbie suddenly remembered James saying something about having an earworm and getting rid of it by writing it down. He hadn’t even picked up on it at the time. But this had to be James’s music. His own compositions. 

One track was just a piece of a song, almost no music, just James’s voice, obviously something he was working on. The fourth was guitar only, a catchy tune that begged to have words attached. In the next, there was a bit of piano joining in with James’s voice and the guitar. A couple of tracks with James reciting poetry. In one of them, he was obviously joking around with the band, because they were making comments in the background. In one, it was something they were trying to set to music, because in between the lines of poetry, they were discussing what should go where. A couple of their world music pieces with James singing something in Latin, like they’d set some liturgy to music. They were unbelievably beautiful. 

Through all but the one, James’s voice twined. And Benji was right. It was lovely. Rough, and even to Robbie’s untrained ear, not a lot of range. But the same way James’s serenity came through when he was playing, his emotions came through in his voice, aching and plaintive in places. Strong and breezy in others. But still...James’s voice. In a chorus of voices, Robbie knew he could pick it out. 

And Robbie felt a pang of guilt, to be sitting there, clutching the music player, thumb poised over the ‘next’ button. As he listened to the first few seconds of each track, greedy to know what revelations the next tune held. He’d told James that Benji had put the band’s music on the player, but...had James realized that meant his music, too? 

Robbie looked at the little screen, glowing bright and blue in the darkness of his bedroom. He could hit the ‘back’ button and find something else to listen to. There had been plenty to choose from. There was still ‘Boogie’ and ‘Indie’ to be explored. And ‘Italo Disco’, whatever that was, which didn’t sound very enticing as he’d never been a fan of disco. 

But James’s music was irresistible. Delightful. James’s voice. Soft and plaintive. Reflective. Aching with melancholy, strong, haunting, but so lovely. Even the unfinished and rough pieces. 

Robbie lay back on his pillow, adjusting it under his head to accommodate the wires sticking out of his ears. Maybe it would be all right. Just this once. And he fell into a deep, blissful sleep with James singing in his head. 

He woke sometime in the early morning. The room was grey, light just beginning to seep through the curtains, and silent. 

One of the earbuds had fallen out of his ear, and there was no music playing in the one still plugged in. He felt around in the bed and found the player where it had fallen off his chest. The screen was dark, and it stayed dark. He’d drained the battery. 

And in doing so, it seemed like he’d recharged his own battery. Because he was as hard as stone. Throbbing with a morning erection like a teenager. As a lad, that had been an every morning occurrence, but as he’d aged, it only happened when he’d had a really restful night’s sleep. And as he’d aged, restful sleep didn’t happen all that often. It certainly hadn’t happened recently. 

Splitting with Laura had been hard. Not acrimonious exactly, though there’d been strong feelings on both their parts, at first. They were on more of even keel now, since the morning they’d met for breakfast, and Laura had grabbed his hand and said, “Robbie, I love you, but, damn!, I’m glad I don’t live with you anymore!” And he’d realized she was right, that he felt the same way in spite of missing her. Even now, the sense of failure still stabbed at him sometimes. 

And then there’d been a couple of cases. They were all rough, but these had been worse than normal. Including the Folsom Prison case, as he’d come to think of it. And though he knew, from long years of experience that he couldn’t allow himself to fret over cases that were closed, that man’s dispassionate, uncaring confession still bothered him. _‘I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die’_ intruded on his restful calm. 

Only it was James’s voice that said the line this time. That kept the rest of the song from taking up residence. The only thing in his head was James’s voice. Reciting poetry. Singing soft and sweet and rough. And didn’t that just feel right? 

For the first time, Robbie understood what Lizzie had said about replacing an annoying earworm with something she liked. Because it was James’s voice in his head now, and he didn’t mind one bit. 

That night, when he slid between his cold sheets, his mind was free of Johnny Cash. And so he had no excuse when he fitted Benji’s earbuds into his ears and let James sing him to sleep. 

And no excuse for any of the nights after. Except that he’d become addicted to his best friend’s voice and the way that it kept him restful and warm through the night. The way it made him feel energized through the day, like every cell on his skin was awake and singing. 

*****

“So how’s your earworm, Sir? Still gone?” Lizzie asked as they pushed through a crowd of students and grabbed a small table in the corner. 

It was midday, and the pub was busy, and Robbie had to strain to hear her. She slid onto the bench beside him, facing the crowded room, leaving the chair across from him for James, who had stopped off at the bar to get in their sandwiches and pints.

It was something Robbie’d still wasn’t accustomed to, not always sitting next to James. All those years, it had been just him and his sergeant crammed into tight corners. But now there was James and his sergeant, and Lizzie sometimes took the spot beside Robbie, or beside James. Sometimes, Robbie didn’t mind, and sometimes, he felt a bit out of sorts when they swapped around. There was a comfort, a warmth, that he felt with the solid presence of James beside him, and Robbie hadn’t realized it until the first time Lizzie had sat next to him. 

“It’s all better,” he said. “One of James’s mates loaned me a music player, and I’ve been using that when I feel a bout coming on.” He didn’t meet her gaze as he told he little white lie. He’d been using it almost every night. He’d even bought one of those speaker things to plug his new player into, so that he didn’t have to wear the things in his ears. 

“Good,” she said, smiling. “I thought it must be better. You haven’t had that tight look around your eyes lately.” 

“I was wondering if you’d help me. I bought meself one of those players...” Robbie fished in his pocket, mumbling an apology for elbowing her, and pulled out his new mp3 player. It was black instead of white and smaller than Benji’s. “The bloke in the store copied over the music James’s friend loaned me, but I was wondering if you’d show me how to put me own music on it from the computer.” 

“Of course, I will.” She started to pull the player towards her, but then James appeared, two pints and a glass of wine threaded through his fingers, and she reached to help him instead. 

Robbie reached for the player to slip it back into his pocket, feeling a little bit of a flush circle under his collar. James had commented on how rested Robbie seemed, and he’d confessed that it was the music on Benji’s player that was helping, but he hadn’t been specific about which music. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told James. He just...hadn’t.

Lizzie snagged the player before he could reach out and moved it over on top of her tablet, out of the way. 

The flush climbed higher as James sat down opposite him, bumping his knees under the table. 

James took a sip of his ale, then reached over and picked up the player. “Do you mind?” he asked Lizzie. 

“It’s not mine.” She nodded her head towards Robbie. 

James raised his eyebrows. “Yours?” 

Robbie ignored the note of disbelief in James’s voice. “Yeah. I liked Benji’s so much I decided to get one.” 

James turned the player over and then over again, inspecting it. “This is nice.” He grinned, teasing. “I’m impressed.” 

James didn’t bother to ask him if it was okay to look at the player. He just turned it on and peered at the screen. 

Robbie almost spit out a mouthful of ale. He swallowed, and the liquid felt like a lump of something solid going down. He opened his mouth to protest, but...what was he going to say? Don’t look at my music player because it has your music on it? 

James slid his thumb over the scroll button. The only indication that he saw anything notable as he looked through the list of music was a slight tightening around the corners of his mouth. And the way he blinked. 

“That’s all Benji’s stuff,” Robbie offered. “The bloke at the store transferred it over. Lizzie’s going to help me put me own stuff on there. And show me how to delete Benji’s.” 

James looked at him, searching his face, expression as bland as could be, and tilted his head slightly. “I take you won’t be putting any Johnny Cash on here,” James said. His voice was light, and he smiled, but his expression was still quiet and carefully controlled. 

Lizzie choked and almost spit wine over the table. “Sir!” she gasped, laughing. “What if you make his earworm come back?” 

James smiled. But was there something else there, too, around his eyes. Something bright and brittle. Almost...a challenge. 

Under the table, James moved his knee. Moving it slowly across Robbie’s, before shifting away. “I think he’s found a way to get rid of it.” And James’s voice was so... So low and musical and...almost flirtatious. 

He knew. Robbie’s heart thudded, clacking like train wheels on metal rails. He didn’t know how, but James _knew_ what Robbie had been doing. Knew Robbie had been using his voice. He shook his head. Mute. And suddenly, achingly aroused, the way he’d been that first morning, waking to the musical memory of James’s voice. 

James glanced back down at the music player. “Italo Disco? What’s that?” 

“It’s awful,” Robbie said immediately, more than willing to pretend nothing was wrong if James was. Thank god he’d actually listened to most of the other stuff on Benji’s player. If his body would just stop with the daft stress arousal, he might even be able to carry on a normal conversation. “That’s one of the ones I want to delete.”

“Want me to do it?” James fingers hovered over the player. 

Robbie nodded, suddenly, ridiculously aware of James’s fingers. The short nails and pads calloused from playing the guitar. 

“Not all Italo Disco is horrible,” Lizzie chimed in. “Some of it is pretty awful, but I’ve heard some at one of the dance clubs that’s not bad.” 

She dragged her tablet over, propped it up, and tapped to turn it on. 

Robbie hoped she was looking for disco music for him to listen to. At least, he’d have an excuse to turn away from James. To stop thinking about things he’d shouldn’t think about, like James’s fingers and his voice and his warmth. 

James touched buttons on the player. “Anything else you want me to delete?” 

“I’m not too fond of the Pop. Or the Garage Bands. Or the Rave.” 

James moved his fingers smoothly over the player, responding to Robbie’s list. 

“Anything else?” 

Robbie swallowed. “I’m not sure... I haven’t listened to everything. I’d...have to look...” 

James turned the player so that he could see it, but it wasn’t tilted right. The reflection from the window behind him blanked the screen. 

James could have just let go of the player, but he didn’t, forcing Robbie to catch his hand and adjust the angle. James had scrolled through the list so that the ‘James’ playlist was uppermost on the screen. 

Robbie’s fingers tightened. 

James’s mouth twitched. “Anything else you want to delete?” he said softly. “Or is this your favourite?” 

And there it was, definitely, the challenge Robbie had seen in James’s bluegreen eyes. “Yeah,” he confessed after a moment, unable to look away from James’s gaze. “I like those.” 

James tilted his head again, watching Robbie as closely as Robbie was watching him. He looked...intrigued. 

Robbie drew his hand back as Lizzie looked up from her pad. 

He didn’t want James to delete his songs. But...if he didn’t like the idea of Robbie having them...now was the time to find out. 

Robbie licked his lips. “You know me taste in music. If there’s something there you think should be taken off...” 

James’s knees touched his again, pressed soft and steady, for just a fraction of a second. “No,” he said, smiling. “It looks good to me.” He lay the player on the table and pushed his chair back. “I’ll check on our sandwiches.” 

And Robbie eased back, muscles going limp with relief as he leaned against the bench. Stopped himself from huffing out a pent-up breath, because what would Lizzie think if he showed he was near to a panic attack? His heartbeat settled down, but still felt like that kid’s song about the train chugging uphill. 

What had just happened? It couldn’t be what it felt like, James flirting with him and his body responding. James with that speculative look in his eyes, knees touching his under the table. 

His brain felt like a song that had changed tempo abruptly. Playing along, easy and slow, but somewhere, he’d missed the slight pause before the cymbals. And now the faster beat was on him, speeding his pulse, making his skin tender and hot. And he didn’t begin to know what to make of it, or how to respond to it. Or even if he was going to have to respond to it. 

*****

A rush of cold air swirled around Robbie’s ankles as the door to James's flat opened. 

Robbie stuck his head around the corner, just to make sure it was James letting himself in. He nodded a greeting and went back towards the kitchen, dishcloth draped across his shoulder like a shield. 

The door slammed and there was silence while James took off his coat and hung it up. Then he came into the living area and stowed his guitar in the corner. “Smells good,” he called. “What culinary experience are we having tonight?” 

Robbie didn’t turn from the counter where he was slicing bread to make garlic toast. “It’s just frozen lasagne. It’ll be ready in about twenty.” 

“Red wine, then?” James came into the kitchen and collected glasses from one cupboard and a bottle of wine from the other. Fiddled with cork and corkscrew and poured. He came over and put a glass of wine near the corner of the cutting board for Robbie and slouched against the worktop with his own dangling from his fingers. 

He was close enough that Robbie could smell fresh cigarette smoke and incense. Myrrh, from All Saints. His own clothes had smelled like that the night he went with James to rehearsal. 

“How was rehearsal, then?” Robbie was pleased that his voice sounded so normal. That none of his gut-churning turmoil could be heard. 

James looked at him, that same speculative, searching gaze that had pierced him in the pub earlier in the day. “So...you want to tell me what’s been going on?” 

So...no pleasant small talk then. No pretence. Robbie’d known this was coming. The moment James had said, before they left work, “Late dinner at mine tonight?” 

Robbie had agreed, offering to cook even though it was rare for them to have dinner at James’s flat and even rarer for him to cook there. Even though he didn’t normally see James on a rehearsal night, it being a late evening and all. But after what had happened in the pub, it would have been cowardly to refuse. 

Though cowardice now seemed like it would have been the most comfortable way to go. Robbie’d been thinking about it all evening, but he had no clue what to say. Except for... “I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

Robbie laid the knife aside and took a drink of his wine to steady his voice. “For listening to your music without asking you. I should have said. About what was on the player and all.” 

“Why didn’t you?” 

James sound more curious than offended or angry. Which is what Robbie had been half expecting, despite James not deleting the files off his player. Despite what had seemed like deliberate touching of knees under the table. Because that could have just been accidental, couldn’t it?, what with James’s long legs and the small table. 

Robbie picked the knife up again. Made sure his fingers were all tucked away before he sliced into the bread. “I’m not sure. I told meself that you knew. That you wouldn’t mind.” 

“I didn’t realize Benji had put _my_ stuff on there. But I don’t mind.” James reached over and snagged a finger-sized piece of crust that had popped off the loaf. Laid it on his tongue like it was a wafer at communion. 

Robbie had to force himself not to stare. James’s pink tongue, licking out, fingers sliding the bread onto it, was disconcerting. He swallowed and reached for his wine glass again just as James set his aside. 

“Benji told me why he put my songs on the player. He told me what you said, about my voice.” 

Robbie froze, fingers going stiff on the knife. He blew out a breath and put knife down slowly. He didn’t know what to say. How to explain to James about his voice, and how it made him feel. “James...” he said slowly, stalling for time. 

After days with songs and voices playing in his head, battering him, soothing him, arousing him, he suddenly had nothing in his head. If he’d had days, weeks, to prepare, he wasn’t sure he would know what to say. 

James saved him the trouble. He shifted into motion so suddenly it was startling. He stepped away from the worktop, stepped out, turned, and braced both hands on the worktop on both sides of Robbie’s hips. Not quite touching. But so close. Too close. 

Robbie was caught in the half circle of James’s long arms. Bracketed. And he twitched. Started to back up. Couldn’t back up without pressing up against James. Couldn’t move sideways without pushing James’s arms away. 

James tipped his head to one side, canted it down so that his mouth was right beside Robbie’s ear. “This afternoon, I started thinking about things. About that night you wanted me to tell you about what I’d been reading. And what you’ve been listening to on your music player. And then, tonight, Benji told me what you said...” James's breath whispered past Robbie’s ear. “And my finely-honed detective skills make me wonder if maybe you’d like me to talk to you about...other things.” 

James's voice flowed over him, warm and honeyed, leaving shivers in its wake. Filling him with surprise, because that wasn’t what he’d been expecting! He’d been expecting James to demand to know what was going on with him. Maybe even be annoyed that Robbie had listened to his songs without permission. Maybe ask Robbie what he thought of his songs, and then Robbie’d have to stutter through words like ‘plaintive’ and ‘soulful’ and try to figure out some way to say ‘so beautiful my heart ached’ without feeling like a fool and giving too much of himself away. But this...

James’s chest was so close to his back that he could feel James’s body heat through his shirt, James’s breath on the back of his neck, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck. And if his mind had been empty before, it was a hollow, echoing space now. Filled with a howling wind and the clacking of his pulse. 

Maybe if James would move back a bit, his mind would come back. But...he realized with a shock, he didn’t want James to move away. It was like having piano wires thrumming on his skin, and everything was moving too fast, but he didn’t want it to stop. 

Robbie’s breath caught just at the base of his throat, and he had to wait for it to come back before he could speak. “I just... That song was driving me crazy,” he said slowly, picking his way through the words and sensations and emotions swirling through him. “And that first morning in your office, when you and Lizzie were talking, I realized that listening to you was even better than maths for making the singing stop. And then it was like Lizzie said, about how, if she was going to have something stuck, it should be something she didn’t mind. And Benji loaned me the player, and I found your songs on it. And...” 

James shifted to the other side of Robbie's head and breathed across the tender flesh just below his ear, “And?” 

Robbie shuddered. James’s voice on his neck was stealing his voice. He wanted another sip of wine. Hell, he wanted a good, strong double-shot of whiskey. But if he moved, he’d be touching James, and he didn’t know what would happen if he did that. 

“I got your voice stuck in me head,” he confessed. “The same as with that song.” And more quietly, almost a whisper. “But I didn’t mind.” 

And James tilted just a bit more and leaned just a bit closer and pressed his lips to Robbie’s neck. 

Robbie’s breath gusted out, ragged and harsh. He felt just that one touch, James’s dry, warm lips, over his whole body. “James...” he said softly, and he didn’t know what he meant. What he wanted to say. What he wanted to do. 

“Robbie,” James answered. 

James’s mouth on his skin, his own name breathed onto his skin, seeping through into his bloodstream. The touch of James’s breath was like champagne in his blood. 

James’s fingers brushed across Robbie’s knuckles where he was gripping the rolled edge of the worktop, slid up his bare forearm, raising goosebumps in its wake. Up his sleeve. James pulled the dishtowel off his shoulder, slowly, like it was some sort of striptease, and dropped it on the floor. 

Not even a button undone, yet somehow, it made him feel naked. 

Blunt, calloused fingers trailed up his throat. James cupped his chin in his palm, fingers splayed across his cheek, and tilted his head back. Back until Robbie’s head was pressed into James’s shoulder. And James kissed him. 

And that was beyond warmth. So far beyond mere warmth. It was heat to the point of melting. James’s mouth on his. James’s tongue teasing its way inside his mouth. James kissing him. Soft lips and sweet cigarette breath. _Warmth, safety, comfort._ Late evening beard stubble abrading his chin. 

He gasped. Pure joy. Arousal. Fear. Because he’d known, sometimes, if he allowed himself to see, that he felt more than friendship. But he hadn’t known he felt this way. And it didn’t make any sense that he’d felt one way a moment ago. And another way now. It was like being run over by a train. It was like being on a train, rushing downhill. Going faster and faster. All this emotion, rushing through him like a train roaring down the tracks. Clanging like cymbals in his ears. In his heart. 

And he came fluttering back to reality, back twisted into an impossible position. Whole life changed by one kiss. Everything he had been to afraid to see, unwilling to see, exposed with one kiss. He _loved_ James. He _wanted_ James. 

James had him trapped. Long arms wrapped around him. Robbie’s arms trapped against his body. Shoulder and hips jammed against James’s body. His lips trapped against James’s hot, questing mouth. Breath trapped in his lungs. 

And he started to panic. How could he have felt this and not known it? Did he even want to know it? And now he couldn’t deny it and he couldn’t move and he didn’t want to move. He didn’t want James to let go, because if James let go, he’d have to decide for himself. He’d have to look at what he wanted. Acknowledge what he wanted. Reach for what he wanted. Or turn away from what he wanted. 

James let him go. He released his tight grip and turning Robbie to face him. Cupped Robbie’s face in his hot hands. Gently. Gentling him. Soothing him. As if James realized that he was panicking. Pressing soft, sweet, warm kisses over his face. Nose, eyelids, cheekbones. Just barely grazing his lips and making him yearn for more. Fear more. 

Robbie touched James, at waist, hips, ribs, arms. Hands lighting, then flitting away, because everywhere he touched was hard and sharp and not what his brain told him he should feel under his hands. But he couldn’t stop, because no matter how alien it felt—hard flat planes and sharp bones and strong muscles—it was James. 

And Laura’s voice intruded into his misery, his joy. Her voice had been tight with annoyance, ‘I’m glad James isn’t a woman, because you’d be living in this house with him instead of me.’ He’d walked away from her, angry. Because James was his friend, and James needed help on a case, and she was just angry because Robbie had to cancel going to her performance with the orchestra. She’d apologized later, saying she knew that with Lizzie out of town, he had to back James up, and that she hadn’t meant it. But she had. And how had she known, before he did? 

“James,” he said, finally finding his voice. But all he managed to get out was the simplest part, because the difficult part was his heart and his head, not his body. “I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never...” 

James caught his confused hands and put them, flat, in the centre of his chest, Robbie’s palms over his heart. He covered Robbie’s hands with his own, rested his forehead on Robbie’s forehead, and whispered, “Do you trust me?” 

Robbie nodded. No hesitation, no need to think about that. Never any need to think about that. He trusted James with his life. How could he not trust him with his body? And his heart? 

“Then all you have to do is listen to me.” James shifted until his lips were against Robbie’s ear. His voice and his breath were warm. “Just listen to me. Just listen to my voice...and we’ll figure everything out as we go.” 

And Robbie suddenly knew what to do with his hands. He slid them around James and pulled him in tight. 

###


End file.
